My Name
by spottedhorse
Summary: Andith from her POV. Edith loves the way he says her name and the special way he speaks to her. Fluffy warning.


I'm not sure where this came from but it keep creeping in while I was trying to work on Vanilla. SO I decided I had to get it out of my head, so here it is. It's pretty fluffy and from Edith's point of view. Probably a nit sappy too. But what can I say, Edith and Anthony are just too ... well so many things but I'll settle for adorable here. Hope you enjoy; drop me a line and tell me what you think.

And oh yeah, Julian Fellowes and the folks at Downtown Abbey created these two marvelous characters, but we've evolved the story to be so much better ;-)

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From the very beginning, that very first night that was now the infamous salty pudding dinner, she had adored the way he said her name and the way he spoke to only her.

There had been real interest and a sense of agreement when he spoke her name over the table that night. But of course, the warm glow dimmed in the glare of her sister Mary. But then the warmth was back as they drove through the countryside in his Rolls. The warmth grew and blossomed … until he went away.

Four long years and he was back. There had been sadness in the way he spoke to her when they first met again. And then, that day in his library, a bemused insistence as he exclaimed, "Lady Edith" and followed with "I'm afraid you must." And in that conversation, the spark was reignited and the warmth began to grow again. And always, when he spoke her name, she felt… treasured.

From then on there was always tenderness in his manner, even when there was also consternation. There was usually affection, sometimes humor and more than once there was trepidation, and no matter what, she valued every utterance. Sometimes his voice held deeply guarded truths and fears … and hopes. He dispensed meaning into the sound of his voice the way Mrs. Patmore measured her ingredients, giving his words far more depth.

The night he proposed there had been so much care in his voice and when he whispered "you've given me back my life," she felt his gratitude. And when he'd bid her goodnight, he'd leaned close and whispered "Edith" in a way that sent a thrill up her spine.

Her name was sent heavenward by him, like a prayer on their wedding night, and his touch was so very reverent that no words were needed. His hand sought her hand as he touched his forehead to hers and whispered "Edith" in the dark at that instant every bride fears. Her name spoken softly from his lips and their combined heavy breathing were the only sounds in the room. She knew it would hurt and it did but somehow his tender smile and reverential eyes combined with his worshipful utterance of her name as he sank deeper into her helped her relax and even relish the experience.

Sometimes, it seemed he needed to touch her when he said her name. His touch and his voice proved to be a powerful combination that she found she always craved. "Edith, dearest," he'd say, coming up behind her unawares and then wrap his hand at her waist and press his lips to her neck, just behind her ear. And then there were the mornings when he had business on the property or in the village and he'd nuzzle against her as if he didn't want to depart, run his fingers along her jaw and kiss her ever so sweetly, memories of the night before dancing through both of their heads.

Once, he spoke her name in anger. She'd been out in the car, an errand to the village and hurrying home, she'd run it into a ditch. He'd been furious, not for the sake of the car but because she might have been hurt. "Edith, what the devil were you thinking?" he'd demanded. She'd run her hand along her abdomen and smiled shyly up at him. "I was coming from Dr. Clarkson… I was so excited to tell you and I just wanted to be home," she'd cried. He'd looked perplexed until the penny dropped and his mouth fell open, his eyes wide with surprise. Then his mouth closed into a disbelieving smile and in two strides he was next to her, holding her, and whispering her name in awe. "Edith, are you telling me you're…" His eyes glanced down to where her hand rested and then back to her face, questioning. When she confirmed his suspicion, he'd whispered her name so joyfully, tears glistening in his eyes.

And on that horrible day when her father phoned to tell them of Sybil's death, he'd held her as she sobbed and whispered her name so sorrowfully, his tears mingling with hers in sympathy.

And on those miserable nights when his shoulder ached and the pain was so intense he couldn't be still or a nightmare from the war replayed in his head, she held him and tried to help him find some peace. When things would calm and they laid together exhausted, he would take her hand and murmur, "Edith, my dearest darling…"

But perhaps her favorite time he said her name was the time he'd said it with gratitude and relief, on the day their son was born. Dr. Clarkson had seen her through it and he'd been pacing for hours in his library when he was finally called upstairs because Edith wanted to tell him herself. She held the baby in the crook of her arm and beamed at him when he entered their bedroom. He stood hesitantly beside the bed as if he was afraid it wasn't real and then leaned down cautiously and kissed her temple. Then he drank in the sight of the tiny bundle she held, tugged at the blanket to see the tiny red face of the baby, and let a timorous smile spread across his face. "Oh Edith… he's so beautiful."

Looking back at her, he'd whispered her name again and it was perfect, that one; every tender emotion filled it, his adoring love and devotion expressed in a single word. It was all she needed, her name falling from his lips, his gentle touch, and that peaceful expression in his eyes, and her world was complete.


End file.
